building.
‘Master?’ asked the slave who’d come out with him. Young, smooth-faced and useless.
‘What’s your name, lad?’ Satyrus asked.
‘Cyrus,’ the boy said, sullenly. Again, Satyrus thought that he wanted a servant he could trust. Someone of his own. ‘It’s nothing,’ Satyrus said. He rubbed his brow. Then he turned on to the Alexandrion and walked along it, passing the temples and the near-palaces of the Macedonian upper class. Many of them were poorer than Uncle Leon, and few of them had the political or military power of Uncle Diodorus, but they lived lives of the most reckless ostentation, because (apparently) that is how they lived in Macedon. Then past the Posideion, with its merchant houses and their public and private wharves. More and more of Abraham’s fellow Hebrews were moving into the Posideion, which had a certain logic to it, as two-thirds of the lots were empty and most of the new arrivals from Palestine were merchants.
Ben Zion had one of the larger houses, a utilitarian building on the Greek pattern with little outward decoration. Like the man himself. Ben Zion tolerated Leon, but the man was reputed to be a Hebrew zealot and he dressed in the plainest of tunics and always wore elements of his Canaanish or Israelite tribal clothing, as if disdaining the Hellenic world in which he lived.
Satyrus had only met him twice – both on errands to fetch Abraham from his lair. Like this one.
Avoiding a man lying dead in the central gutter, and fastidiously wrinkling his nose as a specialist butcher disposed of the unclean parts of an animal, watched by a Hebrew priest, into the very same gutter, Satyrus moved past them, smiled at a knife sharpener because the man was doing such a careful job, and caught a glimpse of a pair of eyes looking out from behind a curtain in the exedra of Ben Zion’s house.
Satyrus smiled to himself, because for all the black clouds in his mood, he was still moved by those eyes – a pair of eyes he was quite sure he would never attach to a voice or a body. Hebrew women lived in even more seclusion than Greek women.
The street door to the courtyard was open, and labourers – a mix of races – were standing with their backs against the courtyard wall, panting. There was a heavy crate on the marble-chipped ground, and Ben Zion stood with his hands on his hips, a heavy wool robe over his vaguely Hellenic tunic.
‘No visiting during working hours,’ Ben Zion barked, catching sight of him.
Satyrus recoiled; then, forcing a smile, he stepped forward. ‘I need your son, sir. Public business.’
Ben Zion had a heavy beard like many older Greek men, and he ran his fingers through it, both hands – a foreign gesture. ‘Public business?’ he asked.
‘You are a citizen?’ Satyrus asked in his best helmsman voice.
Ben Zion actually smiled. Recognition lit his dour face. ‘Yes, young nephew of my partner Leon. I am a citizen.’
Satyrus bowed. ‘Your son is a citizen?’
Ben Zion nodded.
‘I call on your son to serve in the phalanx, with panoply and arms, against the common foe, in defence of the city.’ Satyrus ground the butt of his hunting spear against the marble chips.
‘I hope you’ll have better spears than that,’ Ben Zion said. ‘Leon said you would come. So. And so. Benjamin – fetch my son.’ He motioned at one of the labourers. ‘May I show you a wonder, young warrior? Or do thoughts of armour fill your head to the exclusion of everything?’
Satyrus didn’t know why people didn’t like Ben Zion. He was, in some Hebrew way, just like Diodorus and Leon. ‘I’d be delighted,’ Satyrus said.
Seeing the wonder seemed to involve stripping his chlamys and helping the labourers raise the crate off the marble chips – ‘God send it not be damaged. Fools!’ – and carrying it, the heaviest load Satyrus had ever put his shoulder to, around the corner and deeper into the house.
‘Ahh! Softly! God witness that I have done all I can to get this precious thing into my house! You there, Master Satyrus, you have strong arms – see to it that you have a light touch, as well! Mind the loom!’
A thousand imprecations, some in Greek, and many others in a language that Satyrus didn’t understand, except that it had to be Hebrew. Past a kitchen, whose smells made Satyrus want to eat. He was now carrying the crate with the help of one other man, passing through arched doorways too narrow to admit more hands, and he was unable to do more than walk and carry. He was sweating like an Olympic athlete in the final stade, and the wooden supports by which the heavy thing was carried were beginning to creak and bend.
‘Just on top of this – here – hold it up! Up! Now down – slowly – perfect, my children, perfect!’ Ben Zion actually clapped his hands. ‘Get the crate off, you lot. Master Satyrus, you are ever welcome in my house – you are as strong as my strongest servant, and I might not have got this done without you.’
Satyrus stood up, for the first time seeing where he was – a handsome round room, quite large, with the feeling of a temple. Scrolls in pigeonholes as far as the eye could see, and the crate now rested on an elegant dark stone plinth against a tiled wall. Satyrus rubbed his back, looking around – the ceiling was like the vault of heaven, the first mosaic he’d ever seen. ‘When did my uncle say I was coming?’ he asked, to indicate that he was not altogether foolish.
‘Ah. Today, of course. What can I say, young master? When one has the repute of a famous Hellenic athlete, a poor trader must make what use can be made, yes?’ Ben Zion handed him a steaming cup. ‘Qua-veh. An acquired taste. Nabataean. I have sent a note to your uncle that my sources from Nabataea say that One-Eye’s son invaded them, looking for tribute money, and suffered for it.’
Satyrus nodded at his carrying partner, an enormous man who wore the same tribal marks as Ben Zion. The man nodded back – comrades in fatigue and accomplishment. Then he sipped from the cup and almost spat – the stuff was bitter.
‘Put some honey in it,’ Abraham said from behind him. ‘I see my father got his money’s worth out of your visit.’ He sounded a little contemptuous. It was a tone that Satyrus would never have taken with Leon, but Ben Zion merely smiled.
‘Honey is Abraham’s answer to everything – eh? Greeks will love Jews if only we add a little honey?’ Ben Zion shrugged. Nonetheless, he helped Satyrus himself, using a heavy horn spoon to add honey. A woman appeared with a tray – an attractive young woman, unveiled, who smiled right into Satyrus’s eyes as if they were old friends.
‘Miriam! Up the stairs this instant and no more of your sluttish ways!’ Ben Zion was angry. ‘How dare you?’
‘That’s my sister,’ Abraham murmured. ‘Drink your qua-veh and look imperturbable.’
Satyrus cast a smile at the retreating Miriam, who seemed unbowed by her father’s anger. A female voice was raised from the exedra – Miriam’s mother, Satyrus had no doubt. He didn’t understand a word of Hebrew, but he would have bet a dozen silver owls that the words ‘what will the neighbours think’ had just been shouted.
Ben Zion turned back with a shrug that seemed at odds with his display of rage – all an act? ‘My daughter. The apple of my eye. Beautiful – is she not? Come, be frank, Hellene. Esther, Ruth, Hannah – all fine girls. But Miriam is like Sophia incarnate.’
‘Except for the lack of wisdom,’ Abraham whispered.
‘Bah! I heard that. Listen, my atheist scapegrace, this Hellene has come to my poor shop to require your service in the phalanx of the city. Eh?’ He looked at Satyrus.
Abraham grinned like a fool. ‘Really? I thought I’d have to beg to join. Very humiliating, for our people. Asked to join? Totally different. I would be delighted to serve.’
‘Delighted enough to find ten more like you?’ Satyrus asked. ‘Who can furnish their own panoply to Philokles’ standards?’
‘Ah! Armourers will grow rich all over the city!’ Ben Zion said. Both hands tangled in his beard. ‘How lucky that Leon and I own most of them.’ He nodded. ‘It is as my son says, young master. We hate to beg – but invited? I doubt you’ll find fewer than fifty.’
‘Philokles in command? That’s a frightening thought.’ Abraham laughed.
Satyrus smiled, and then frowned. ‘You could die,’ he said suddenly, unsure how to approach the matter. ‘This is real.’
Ben Zion nodded curtly. ‘War causes death? In Greece, this may be news. In Israel, we already know what war does.’ He nodded to his son. ‘See to it that you do us honour.’
Abraham nodded. He bowed respectfully to his father. ‘I will.’
‘I know,’ Ben Zion said. He turned away suddenly. ‘Your Hellene friend should see this, since it is the triumph
